


black tie optional

by nightbloomings



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael sends Trevor a few pictures, pushes a few buttons, and Trevor lets him know what he thinks of the whole thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	black tie optional

**Author's Note:**

> Waltass has done awesome art of this from Trevor's POV, you can see it [here](http://waltass.tumblr.com/post/74279208338/loose-warm-up-doodle-kinda-based-off-of-black-tie)!

Michael stared down at his phone, idly tapping the corner with the tip of his forefinger. If he had to guess, he’d say it’d been close to a minute and a half, maybe two minutes, since he’d sent that message to Trevor. Definitely felt like a lot longer, though. His thumb hovered just above the screen, over the most recent entry in his inbox. “T Philips,” it read, followed by a small checkmark, indicating it’d been sent. He counted off another fifteen, twenty seconds or so, and then hit the message, bringing it up on screen. On the surface, it was just a picture—Michael in a black tuxedo, satin lapels and sharp shoulders, complete with crisp white shirt and skinny black tie—followed by a caption: “thought you might want some help, keeping an eye on me and all.” Totally innocuous, unless you’d been hanging around the back of a random pawnshop in Morningwood a week ago.

It’d been an empty threat; Michael had guessed that from the start. It was Trevor’s own brand of posturing, of puffing out his chest and laying his own ground rules. But as far as Michael was concerned, it was just another button to push.

Who the fuck knew why he bothered with that childish kind of shit, beyond the fact that Trevor always retaliated, and gave as good as he got.

Michael cleared his throat and backed out of the message. Either Trevor was away from his phone or he was brooding, but Michael knew Trevor: the phone never left his pocket, and brooding was one of his favourite fucking pastimes.

Michael swiped away from his inbox and tapped on the Snapmatic app on his phone, his free hand moving to his tie. He pinched the half-Windsor at the hollow of his neck, tugging it from side to side and pulling down, until the knot sat in the centre of his chest. He unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and pulled on the collar to widen the visible expanse of tanned skin and salt and pepper hair. He held his phone in front of his chest, straightening his shoulders, and then took a picture.

He sent it off to Trevor on its own, no caption, no explanation. Trevor was either going to clue in or he wasn’t, but Michael wasn’t worried about that; Trevor was a smart guy.

While waiting for a response, Michael thumbed through some of the unread messages in his inbox. It was a lot of fucking junk, and none of it held his attention long. He checked the timestamp on the last message to Trevor—two minutes and change.

It was time to up the ante, Michael thought, but he wanted to know exactly what he was dealing with. He wasn’t going to fill up Trevor’s inbox if he wasn’t checking his phone; Michael had other shit he could be doing.

He tapped on the thumbnail of Trevor’s face and called his number. The line rang once, twice, and then it cut to voicemail. So he was there, at his phone, and actively avoiding Michael. But it wasn’t just that... everybody and their fucking grandmothers knew how obvious it was when you ignored someone’s phone call. It was like a game of chess, and Trevor had just taken his move.

Michael huffed and shifted his thighs, widening his stance. He cupped his hand over his dick through the black fabric of the tuxedo pants and palmed himself for a moment. He got half-hard quickly, anticipating where this tête-à-tête was going to land him. Best case scenario: he got Trevor to fold, to give in and give it up. Worst case? He ended up jerking off solo in the changing room of the Ponsonby’s at Rockford Plaza.

Worth the gamble, he figured, as he angled his phone at his groin, his other palm wrapped around the bulge of his semi.

Another wordless message sent, followed by another couple of minutes of radio silence. Michael bit back a groan as his dick throbbed. He’d hit the point of no return the moment he put his hand on himself, if he was being honest with himself.

As he waited to see whether Trevor would respond to his latest play, Michael pictured him, sitting on some dingy couch—didn’t matter where, whether it was Sandy Shores or the back room of the Vanilla Unicorn, both were filthy—fingers delved below the waistband of his pants, stroking slowly around the head of his cock, the picture of Michael’s crotch up on his phone.

Another minute or so went by without an answering message. Fuck. If Michael was going to escalate this—and oh, he was—he’d have to get out of the changing room. He had a charge account at the store; the chick out front knew who he was.

Michael cleared his throat, sliding his phone into the pocket of the tuxedo pants and doing up the buttons at the neck of the shirt. He gathered the clothes he’d worn into the store in his arms and went out to the counter, signalling to the sales girl.

“I trust everything was to your liking, Mr De Santa?”

Michael nodded, swallowing hard as he tried to ignore his insistent cock. “Yes, thanks. But hey, I actually have to run off to an event right now, so if I could just wear this out...”

“Oh, certainly,” the girl said with a smile as she moved behind the counter. “It’s a common sort of request for our clients.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have figured.”

The sales girl smiled again and began typing on the keyboard in front of her. “Shall I bill your charge account today, Mr De Santa?”

“Please.”

“Very good.” She continued typing for a few more moments, and then printed off a long receipt, handing it to Michael over the counter with a pen. “Just a signature, please.”

Michael hastily scribbled his signature, barely even recognising it himself. He slid the receipt back across the counter and waited just long enough for the sales girl to say goodbye before he headed for the door.

He took long strides to his car and threw his clothes into a pile on the passenger seat. His left hand dropped to his dick right away and he rubbed himself slowly over his pants as he started up the engine. He drove off, turning right at the first intersection and then taking another quick right into the Rockford Plaza parking garage.

He drove up two levels and parked at the far end, where it was emptiest. He shut off the engine and reached for his phone. Loathe as he was to admit it, he’d hoped Trevor might have responded in the time since sending the last picture, but nothing had come through.

Michael brought up the Snapmatic app again on his phone and untucked his dress shirt, pushing the fabric to the side. He pulled on the waistband of his tuxedo pants and sucked in his stomach a little, to give his phone just the right angle. He snapped a picture, the slick, flushed tip of his cock clearly visible against the black and white expanse of his clothing. He sent it off to Trevor and let his head fall back against the headrest, eyes closed.

The wait was agonising, his dick hard and his pulse picking up speed. He started to doubt himself, wondering if maybe Trevor really was that pissed at him. Michael might have been ashamed, sending Trevor pictures like this, if he didn’t know that somewhere deep down, regardless of how angry he might’ve been, Trevor would be savouring them. It was this unspoken sort of thing between them, and Michael didn’t want to think to hard about the specifics of it.

And then his phone pinged and vibrated, and it was so unexpected that Michael wondered whether he’d imagined it. He looked at his phone and pulled up his inbox to see a new message from Trevor. He opened the message, letting out a deep breath that turned into a rough groan at the picture that came up on his screen.

It was Trevor’s hand gripped around his hard cock just below the head, slicked with precum, his broad thumb pressed into the slit.

Michael shifted in the seat and quickly unbuttoned his pants, freeing his dick. He moved his phone to his left hand and stroked tight and slow a few times with his right, and then he let go just long enough to take a picture of himself, and send it to Trevor.

His phone rang in the next minute, Trevor’s name coming up on the caller I.D. Michael sucked in a breath and stilled his hand on his dick before answering.

“Hey, Trev—” he started, but he was cut off by a hiss from Trevor, insistent and harsh, and followed by a needy groan.

Michael let out a ragged exhale and let his head fall back again, pumping his cock. Trevor was breathing heavy in his ear, punctuating each exhale with a hushed grunt, and the phone call turned into a volley of hitched breaths and bitten-off moans, until Michael heard Trevor pick up his pace. He could hear the wet sound of skin against slick skin, coupled with Trevor’s erratic breathing. Michael stroked himself faster, doing his best to match what sounded like Trevor’s rhythm in some approximation of actual proximity.

Michael ended quietly with a series of breathy grunts and huffs, his feet bracing against the floor of the car as his orgasm passed through him. He quickly pulled the crisp white dress shirt out of the way and came hot on his stomach, while Trevor let out a loud, shuddered moan through the phone that dragged out into one note towards the end. He heard Trevor take a few deep breaths and Michael held his, waiting to see whether Trevor would say anything.

But the line disconnected without a word, without ceremony, and Michael dropped the hand that held his phone onto his thigh. He let out a huff, and then grabbed the undershirt he’d been wearing earlier in the day from the passenger seat and cleaned himself up.

He looked at his phone, his thumb hovering distractedly over the home screen while his well-sated brain took a moment to catch up, and then he pulled up the GPS, searching for the nearest dry cleaners.


End file.
